


Promise me salvation

by FamRoyalty



Series: brother, do you know me? [2]
Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Epic Bromance, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Recovered Memories, Senpais please bear with it, Sequel, Sorry updates are slow, Spicy, This is not a reader POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FamRoyalty/pseuds/FamRoyalty
Summary: Your eyes have been gauged, the pallet of your tongue has been stripped and you hold your breathe and count to ten.You been dropped onto a vast and bottomless sea, creatures lurking under the black waters, and your only anchors is a old man and a old wistful friend.Pray that its enough.
Relationships: Ainz Ooal Gown | Momonga & Touch Me
Series: brother, do you know me? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729840
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	1. I can't hear you through your sins

**Author's Note:**

> hey, hey, hey. Guess who's back? Back again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is flowers growing in your throat, its thrones are tracing the walls of your tongue. You wonder when you became such a lovely corpse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _The imagination is a weapon. Those who don't use it die first_ ,"—Goblin Slayer

The fresh morning skyline rises into the inky blackness that is everything it can never quite reach, and you breathe in a stuttering breath that fills you to your core, rises with it and goes ever farther, and touches a distant milky way of the most colorful stars.

It's such a strange sight, seeing it in person is truly so blizzard. The added weight of the temperature in the grass blades under your feet, to the wind through your hair, or maybe it's so strange because its clear and not pixellated. You have only bear witness to pictures like that painted above you in screens and photos.

You smile. 

It's so tranquil, it's easy to play pretend and ignore the existence of the dead bodies behind you. 

_Rewind_. Tell the story from where you begin, from where we all begin, in the end.

Shintaro Ishihara wakes up, and his breath chokes tight and small before it ever leaves his throat.

( You dream about chains and cracked walls, about her eyes, staring at you brightly and hopeful and then reassuring and desperate and determined and scared, and hateful-- )

You used to wonder why the Academy always wore that false mask, the one where they flaunt in the streets with their badge, and now you know, because it would break the myth of illusion. _You always wanted to be a police officer,_ you say to yourself. Yourself is sitting in rusty chains and leaking walls, he tells you _bullshit, the world ain't going to get better just because you're following your dreams._

You wake up and this is what you see; you’re dying, as though you didn’t know. Blood is running down your belly, your inner thighs, dripping down your leg and pooling on the floor beneath you. Your whole body dedicates every living nerve inside you to the task of burning, pulsing, agony. You can’t move.( You can hardly breathe. ) 

The one thing pinning you in place is your daughter's eyes peeping behind a cracked wall, those bright eyes that are somehow so _alive_ , alive in a way that you might have forgotten how to embrace beyond the rush of keyboards, the rush of adrenaline when you raid a new mob boss.

You’re still dying though, just in slow motion. 

Reality; you are curled in a cold bed alone in the impossibly big room, hiding from the sun and the walking, talking impossibilities that are outside your room. You remember seeing them cheer when you walked into the Hall, but it was so jarring like it was bearing its teeth, at how their skin morphed to show happiness in their faces. How tears trickled down to wide smiles, teeth showing. 

You don't know how to feel about that.

_Fast forward. Rewind_. Keep track of the story. C’mon, man, where’s the rhythm, _where’s your rhythm?!_

Your room has begun to keep the smell of your belongings.

Well, your room smells like old leather and chain mail from the armor in the corner of the room because you were too exhausted to know where to properly store it, but its something. 

This is all something. What's truly something is simple; You’ve gotten used to so much noise, whether it be from the neighbors or the running downstairs —and it’s strange now. How the new noises are in abundance, from the crickets outside your door to the low buzz in the air every time you take a step, it's all new and strange, a bit hard getting used to it.

  
You’re lying on your bed, waiting. Not sure why you have been generally briefed on the history that has occurred while he was in captivity. That Nazarick is moving towards war against other nations, as they felt threaten when he attacks the Nation responsible for your "capture." 

(Ainz leaves you sometimes, only rare in the beginning, but now you hardly see him. No fault of his, you get reassured, he's merely taking care of some "internal business." You don't ask.)

You are trying to gauge if you’re tasting blood in the acid phlegm burning the back of your throat when there's a knock at your door.

"Come in," Your voice doesn't waver, not anymore, but it sounds different to your ears, more of an echo and a boom that was not there before. You don't pay any attention to that.

Sebas is your only real anchor here. He is an old alarm that echos with fragmented phantoms of the old days. 

No question is too silly for him, he answers with accuracy and politeness that rubs you in the wrong way. It's the same politeness when you were in an office, a man with too many connections "donating" to the Academy and you smile and say thank you for your help. 

This is how you know Sebas: your lifeline. The animated 3D body in black beside you, grey hair and folded hands. He has none of you-- the burn scar in the knuckles from a hot bullet, a scratch in your nose from childhood rowdiness, or the small birthmark in the back of his left ear. He is the pure version, unfiltered hopes and ambitions dreams that have a vague sense of direction that you no longer recognize.

And you want to keep it like that.

(Hope that he stays ignorant.)

It's a familiarity that you claw into to, barring teeth in defense, just so you could keep this for yourself.

Seba's bows, not heeding to your pleas that it wasn't really necessary, so you politely nod in greeting. 

"My Lord, the schedule has been cleared for today. Lord Ainz requests that you take bed rest for the day and do light activities as to not agitate your wounds." 

Wounds are a polite term to the angry scars with nasty teeth lashing across your torso. You smile sadly and think this is what you have done for the past days. Idle sitting there, not even allowed to move a muscle in fear of Seba's lectures as you wait it out. You have already counted 12,678 bricks in your sight, a few less than in the cage you were kept in.

"Nah, let's go out instead." 

( Know this: On a long enough timeline, the odds are you’re going to fuck it up. Had you only known, all your troubles could be traced to the moment your foot touched the hallway. If you could rewind time, you would beg your past self to remain locked in that damned room. )

Sebas hurried behind you, marching in your shadow as you hurried along the hallway. You don't want to leave the floor itself, just leave the trap of a room that is yours, even for a little while.

There's a bounce in your step, noting how everything has been warped in your new reality. The air has a taste, teasing at the tip of your tongue. Its earthly, rich and unfamiliar in a sense of nostalgia. 

You can remember the way you moved your thumbs to the heavy breathing when you and everyone else walked through the vacant hallways and into the throne room, high in adrenaline, and victory in their egos.

You let a hollow smile fill your cheeks.

"Lord Touch Me. It's quite the surprise to see you walking around so soon," A striking, abundantly captivating is simple man's words for the floor guardian. She got a figure that make women weep, a warm smile with tempting lips yet her sharp eyes remained unmoved and cold. Fitting.  You aren't so sure on everyone's name, but you are _70% sure_ that her name started with a B. 

"Albedo, what business brings you here? No one is allowed entry unless it's been brought up to me." 

Well, you were a little close. "A" does go before "B", so technically you were off by a single letter. You should talk to Ainz when he comes back, not to make a complete fool of yourself.

"I _am_ the Overseer, Sebas Tian. You forget yourself," That made you look at her properly, her tone ringing a little bell of warning in your head. _Don't be ignoring that shit, ya hear? That's the shit that keeps you alive,_ its your second partner, a old man who knows too many names. He killed himself two years into your partnership.

You step foward. 

"And _I_ am his creator. Watch your tone, Albedo." The colors of the walls flicker like a bad movie affect, flashing between the Academy's walls and the decorative walls behind her shocked face.

Its masked before you can call her out on it.

"Of course, forgive my rudeness My Lord." 

( Sometimes, in your dreams, Koharu's face morphs and becomes older as her hair brittles in grey, and those bright brown eyes grow tired and dark, and her voice becomes hoarse and beaten upon, and she says— )

"Its fine, just watch it. And like he said, why are you here anyway?" 

The way she tilts her head, her hair falling like a waterfall, is too reminiscing of your wife. She sits in the floor, blankets pooled around her, and her hair falls as she smiles up to you, such a delicate smile.

Her voice snaps you out of it.

"I was merely in my way to check up on you My Lord. As it was requested in my routine and report to Lord Ainz," Albedo smiles weird, you noted. When people smile their eyes scrunched up, their shoulders moves and they may even lean. Her eyes remain static and cruel, speaking temption.

(— _darling, darling can you hear me? I can't see you. Please come home, did we do something wrong? Why aren't you here? Come. Come and see your daughter._ )

Try not to vomit, Ishihara. Remember that she killed herself around 7:46 pm, when you went out to buy more popcorn because Yuna ate all of it and she whined for more. You’ve been meaning to for the last fifteen minutes but force swallowing your puke is something you’ve mastered throughout your career.

Sebas steps foward.

"I thank you for your concern, Albedo. You can inform Lord Ainz that everything is going well." 

She merely hums, squinting her eyes, unnatural and inhuman, and get a flash of your wife. Energy flows out like oil in your fingers.

"Then I'll take my leave then, My Lord, Sebas." 

You are so fucking unfathomably soul-crushingly high and exhausted and high from being exhausted that you start to laugh. Don’t do that. It triggers your gag reflex, sees, so choke back the taste like rot and fermented lemon and try not to make any noise.

Sebas rounded towards you, concern in his face and eyes tearing and heartbroken. It echos your wife. Think that your wife is haunting you after all these years. Smile at the irony.

"Should we go back now, My Lord?" Nod. Fantasize about passing out in the cool floor. Obsess about oblivion.

When your feet don't even make it three steps, yank off your helmet and double up retching. Puke until you dry heave and your eyes burn and your nostrils clog and sting. Cough. Gag. Shake it off. Gauge the shake in your hands. Stare for a moment at the watery yellow contents of your stomach, swaying slightly, until someone touches your arm.

His hands are shaking. You can see the glistening coil of an internal organ between the lips of skin and muscle across his stomach. 

"Sorry." 

Silence.

"Don't apologise, My Lord. Please, let's make haste." 

When you get back to your room, close the door behind you, then roll into your bed, dream of ants crawling under your skin, fingers moving over your scars, and a hollow voice singing you a lullaby. Try not to dream of the rotting chains, chattering like teeth in your skull. Try to dream of the wooden floor beneath your feet as you dance one last waltz with your wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, actually. .. . Like writing??? Ew who does that.


	2. Hear no evil, do no evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> death inspires you like a dog, rabid, and teeth barring to those who come too close. Your wife weeps hauntingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Taking you easy? No, you are the ones who're taking me easy. My name is Sebas. The one who gave me my name is the strongest warrior. The master I serve is a Supreme Being. But, I can see it's no use talking about him to lower creatures such as yourselves. I grow tired of talking. Let's finish this."_

Before Ainz left, he talked to you. Never-ending, muttering, and rambling at the oddest hour, it never really mattered what, you were just grateful that his voice filled the silence.

You think guilt and loneliness are what drove him to your room every day and night, but you never really say anything on the first few days together. He never left your side, he kept re-telling adventures of blue skies and endless hills. Nostalgia clogged his words, you noted, he would shift his shoulders and rub his fingers in small circles over his knuckles. 

You want to say you understand, that it was difficult, but he's here now, and they are a team and he can count on him, _yet_. Yet you can't, your tonsils are burned, your larynx bleeding and your skin is sickly with tremors that only subdue thanks to Ainz's magic. 

But you're you. 

"Are you sure? Do you think you can last another hour?" However much you appreciate Momo's tone colored in concern, it grinds in your nerves. He deserves to have a little bit of breathing room as well.

 _do you want to see what paradise looks like?_ An old man in the street corner looks up, and you start to wonder if you start to look like him. You smile up, the dept of your vision is still trippy, and you're limbs are lead, but Ainz stills, he tilts his face, watches you from the corner of his eye, and tells you this: are you sure?

There is no reason for him to say it. You still let him know.

I’m fine, you try to say. You emphasize your half-smile by squeezing your fist in the air in a show of comradery. Fine.

It isn’t even really a lie.

It’s just a statement of fact: you are fine. You are always fine. It is not a lie.

Ainz looks at you, looks at the angry red marks in your skin, and nods. He stands, dark robes adding a flare of drama, yet before he leaves, he half turns. "Remember, I'm always here for you Shintaro, please don't hesitate to reach out."

And he leaves. 

Closes the heavy doors with a defined _click_ and that's that. 

The thought is good. Nice. 

(It isn’t really goodbye.)

The room is silent before you, as of course, it would be. For the first time, however, quite not, of course, all inside you is silent: your pulse does not quicken, your thoughts neither race nor multiply, your stomach does not churn, and your hand does not twitch. You are as still and stiff as your days in the academy.

( ᶦ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵍᵒ ʰᵒᵐᵉ )

Before the loudness of your body and ill mind take over—also your usual when confronted with the numb killing silence— you would fold your hands and pray to a dead god for hallowed prayers. Like your mother taught you. 

There was never any silence inside you, or around you, when you were in chains or not, the silence was never quiet. Now it is.

(It’s wrong, and there is nothing you can do to change it.)

* * *

When Momo comes back, he comes back like a guilty old dog, dragging his robes behind him slowly. As if you would be scared shitless if he did anything else. Maybe he heard about your little adventure to the halls. 

"I'm sorry for leaving you for so long. There was immediate dangers that needed to be taken care of." 

He sits on the grand chair next to your bed and he waits. (He says that if he was at fault)

You want to say this; _I'm alright, momo. A little stomach bug never hurted anybody._

Yet, even with the heavy robes made for kings, the booming voice echoed by conquerors, there's a small outline of a japanese salaryman who is very, very lonely. And its your duty to help. 

You slide from one smile into the next like they’re all the same, too. You’re a shadow behind a curtain, dumb, invisible, because the outside shines right through you, eradicating the dark spot you occupy, and leaving behind a hollow copy of what you want to impersonate.

"Nah, I think I move a little too fast. Bastards did a good one on me after all." And he nods, a little slower and you see your wife in his place. She is knitting, not that she had any skill on it, but she is silent and waiting.

It will get easier, she tells you one night. The loss. It will get easier.

You’re resting in bed, Yuna asleep, and the night was young. She had a busy day, you were home early. You dined over candlelight. You danced in the livingroom with old romantic music that she was sappy over, backdrop of wash soft colors drenching you two.

Still, she tilts her face, watches you from the corner of her eye, and tells you this: it will get easier.

"Still, please be more careful." He breaks the illusion with a reality of phantom pains and needles where flesh and creature meet, and where scars run deep.

Smile. Maybe if you smile hard enough, you will only have one smile left. 

"I will, don't be such a mother hen Suzuki. Plus, I need to get out more, you know? Get some air, stretch some muscles." You gave a cheeky smile, and you know you won him over because he does the little huff of amusement. 

Alright then, he says. He says it with a smile. That’s good.

Yeah, it is, you say. Good. Very good.

But even when Momonga leaves you, he leaves because of responsibilities and titles. Loss, however, has no such thing as self made chains. Your wife sits on your bed, patting and comforting the oily, and nasty hair sticking to your forehead.

It isn’t goodbye, she says. But her eyes are misty clear, her colors bleeding from her. It can’t be: the grief has substituted the marrow of your bones, the loss has become your blood. Grief for your wife, the loss of your daughter. Grief holds you up, the loss makes you function; death has become even more vital for your wellbeing. Which is ironic. It is an irony she would appreciate, you think, idly, talking, as ever, to your wife inside your head.

You try not to cry. You really do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, whatacha doing? So, quick update: im garbage. I started writing this and then stopped somewhere in June?? Im sorry. With corona, you would think i would have all the time in the world. gosh, im garbage. anyway, sorry for the long haul there, i'm gonna try to step up my game again, so please bear with me!! Sorry, it took a while (literal months) to come up and write everything. What do you guys want to see in this story? Any subplots you guys are rooting for?
> 
> also, stay inside and stay safe people!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Long time no see partners! I'm thinking of making a discord and stuff, not just


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